


Bridgeport

by Roga



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:55:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roga/pseuds/Roga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sick!Kris, sick!Adam, utter pointless schmoop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bridgeport

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently the Idols have been getting progressively sicker and sicker this week, catching it from one another. In yesterday's concert, Kris looks [completely wiped](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A978Q4P4hrk) singing "Hey Jude", and Allison and Adam are adorable and protective. Tonight he was apparently too sick to go on at all, per doctor's orders. Adam sang Kris's part in the final group song, and then tweeted that he also had a fever and wouldn't be coming to the after party. This is a therapeutic "OMG POOR BBS" thing for me. I do not apologize. Mostly.

The worst part isn't the fact that his muscles ache like he's just hiked up the Grand Canyon, or that his head stabs with pain every time he moves it more quickly than... really really slow, or that his body alternates sweating and shivering and both at the same time, or that his throat feels like he just tried swallowing a jagged shard of glass.

The worst part is knowing that there are ten thousand people out there – _ten thousand_ people who paid good money, and who traveled from God knows where, just to see the American Idol concert, and – Kris knows they're not just there for him, but he's also not going to lie to himself with false modesty. A lot of people _did_ come out for him, and it makes him feel a lot sicker than he already is.

The last notes of “Don't Stop Believing” fading into the night make his stomach twist. A few minutes later, he hears a pair of footsteps padding into the bus. Kris rolls over. It's Adam, looking about as crappy as Kris feels.

"No after party?” Kris whispers, not wanting, and too tired anyway, to strain his voice.

Adam makes his way to Kris's bed and flops down heavily, utterly exhausted. He points to his throat and shakes a finger. Right. No talking then.

"God, this sucks so bad,” Kris groans. “I'm sorry I made you–” Adam claps a hand to Kris's mouth before he can say anything else. Kris can barely make the effort to raise his eyebrows with surprise, but a few weak hand gestures later Adam manages to convey: _Too tired to climb. Lower bunk good enough. No talking, bad for voices. Sleep._

Kris sighs, and leans back. “Fine,” he whispers, and then raises his hands meekly at Adam's warning look. Okay. He'll shut up.

Kris rolls back on his stomach, nudging over to the side of the bed, to make room for Adam. It's probably not too healthy for them to be sharing a bed, but on the other hand, they're both sick anyway. Kris squeezes his eyes shut, pulls the pillow over his head for extra darkness, and tries to fall asleep and forget the number of people he's disappointed tonight. He can feel Adam settling himself beside him, and there's not too much room on the cot but Kris is cold right now anyway. He feels himself shiver, and even lying down with his eyes closed he feels like the world is spinning in three directions at once.

A few minutes drag by like hours and Kris can't fall asleep. He keeps thinking about various scenarios that fans must have traveled through to come to the concert tonight, like selling their grandma's prized pony for bus fare from Louisiana to Connecticut, or trading sexual favors with the sleazy neighbor so he'd allow his daughter to babysit their kids that evening and free them for the night, or battling a horde of Representatives from South Carolina who were carrying swords and calling them liars, and Kris wants to – to tweet them, or something – but he's sick and delirious and he'll probably have too many typos anyway. He just wants to... apologize.

He shifts in bed, and hums _it's too late to apologize_ , because now it's stuck in his head. Adam elbows him, and then Kris feels guilty because now he's bothering Adam too, who _did_ go out there and cover for Kris despite being sick, so he stays still. Tries to. The shivering's still hard to control. Adam elbows him again, and Kris peeks his head from under the pillow to discover Adam staring at him. Adam's eyebrows do this – this thing, it's hard for Kris to think, but it's definitely exasperation. _Not your fault_.

Which, maybe, but still, "I should have--”

"Shhh,” Adam cuts in, and then actually says aloud, his voice soft and a little hoarse, “It's not. Your. Fault. Go to sleep.”

"What the _hale_ 's goin' on here?” Allison's voice suddenly comes from the bus entrance. “Adam Lambert, did I just hear you talking?” she demands.

Adam opens his mouth, and then thinks better of it. Allison stomps onto the bus, but treads lightly to their shared bunk, and Kris knows there's something wrong with her being on the boys' bus, or her being on the sick people's bus, but he can't quite put his finger on it. What is she thinking? She'll get sick too.

He starts telling her, “You sh–”

"No way, man.” Allison produces one of those swine flu protective masks, and ties it around her head, and now she looks like a Hong Kong tourist or like Benton from _ER_ or something. She's carrying a bottle of water and a bunch of paper cups. “ _You_ ,” she says pointedly, pouring a glass of water, “are going to take this magic little pill and go to sleep and not wake up for at least twelve hours, okay? No arguing.”

The bed dips as Allison sits down by their heads, and Kris is pretty sure his judgment isn't impaired enough to actually take medicine prescribed by a seventeen-year-old. Pretty sure, except that he's _so goddamn tired_ , and he can't stop thinking...

And Adam isn't even resisting, just lifts his head for a moment and swallows the pill and drinks down the water with a small sigh. “Your turn,” Allison commands, and when Kris still hesitates she tells him, “Kris, baby, you look like shit. Come on, drink up.” And what the hell, at least if he ODs he won't be alone on the bus when it happens. At this point raising himself up to his elbows kind of feels like he's bench pressing the weight of a small elephant, but Kris makes himself anyway, manages to swallow the pill without wincing too obviously at the pain – he hopes – and collapses back down on the mattress. “Good boy,” Allison murmurs. “Jeez, you two, honestly. You gotta take care of yourself.”

"Didn't wanna disappoint,” Kris mumbles into the covers, and it's either Adam's steadier breathing or Allison's presence or the magic pill taking effect, but his eyelids already feel heavier.

"Son, the only person you'da disappoint is me, if you'd gone up on stage tonight,” she says with a kind of soft finality that seems – not for the first time – far older than Allison's age.

His headache is weaker when moments later he hears other footsteps on the bus, shuffling feet and Allison's voice – “You, you, and you, to bed, not taking no for an answer. You two take these masks and do whatever you like. And guard the bus. Matt, ain't no way you're having a Twitter party now. Sleep.”

Kris hopes he won't be haunted by dreams of angry disappointed fans, but then he feels a hand on his back – heavy and slow, rubbing back and forth along his shoulders and the line of his spine, and it feels so good, warm and steady and relaxing, and Kris doesn't even know where Adam's getting the strength to move at all. But he lets himself focus on the motions of Adam's hand, almost magically soothing away the pain from Kris's aching muscles, like Allison's pill, and at some point, finds himself lulled into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> (I should mention that this is unbeta'd and it's 8AM. If you spot anything, lemme know.)


End file.
